Timepiece
by Nera Fiore
Summary: [Tale of Two Cities] Sydney can't remember when his affinity for hating clocks began. A Sydney Carton character sketch.


**Timepiece  
****by Alyssa D'Angelo  
****Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, events, etc. Event is original, but fictional.**

He wasn't very fond of clocks.

Or bells, or whistles, or calendars, or watches, or schedules, or chimes. Actually, anything that even remotely reminded him of time at all caused the faintest scowl to creep across his lips. Not that it was enough to cause a terrible difference in his usual demeanor ("Mister Carton, you're so pale!", or "Mister Carton, you look so tired!", second only to his favorite, "Mister Carton, you seem so melancholy!"), but he couldn't help feeling the nerves in his faces twitching even more against his will. Though, it wasn't as if it really mattered. Sydney Carton sighed, replacing his pen in its ink and pushing it aside.

The chiming grandfather clock in the corner of Stryver's makeshift office-lounge rang several times, reminding him of the of the all-too-familiar late hours of the night (or was it the early hours of the morning?) that he spent reviewing the monotonous petty cases after petty cases, while reasonable men of his age were sleeping soundly along their wives in the cool London air. Of course, instead of relaxing with anyone, Sydney let his eyes travel back and forth, following the pendulum of the clock for several moments, until it dawned on him that he was daydreaming (maybe it was "nightdreaming"? the two seemed totally backward to him). Quickly, he blinked his eyes and shook his head, which buzzed incessantly from the ticking and chiming.

Initially, when the buzzing first started, he thought perhaps it was the alcohol. However, he quickly noted that in these hard days of drinking, alcohol - no matter what the brand or amount - didn't seem to have that sort of effect on him. He knew about the men in the taverns and pubs that would sheepishly leave covered in their own vomit and waste each night, but still, he was never that man. At least, not since he could recall. Night after night he would drink until he fell asleep, at the very worst, but the buzzing only started a few months ago. It was then, that Sydney noticed, Stryver had inherited the tall clock which he displayed in the corner of the office-lounge as an "extravagant piece of artwork". It wasn't hard for him to put two and two together.

Those nights that he'd drink until he'd fall asleep did seem to intensify everything, both good and bad. But in this day and age, most things seemed to go from bad to worse, and the nights in which the barmaid would wake him from the tavern tables were the absolute worst. Those were the nights in which something had gone especially awry in his already impassive lifestyle. Nights in which the idea of living with the soul purpose to die, scared him. Nights in which the thought of being in a room full of people but still feeling completely alone, haunted him. Nights in which the successful faces of Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette caused tears of jealousy, regret, inferiority, and pain to flow freely from his eyes, until he didn't want to feel anymore. It wasn't as though he chose to become melancholy and apathetic toward his life; a few bad breaks and it just sort of happened. When he began to feel anything at all, his first instinct was to drink the feelings off. Feelings began to terrify him, and as a result, he'd pick up the bottle. Never did he become loud or ill like the men in the pubs - he just went numb until he slept. Therefore, it wasn't the port wine or the whiskey - it was clearly the clock.

The scowl on Sydney's face returned more distinctly as he thought it through again, unwantingly. He balled his hands into fists and quickly slammed them down on the desk where he sat. The little vial of ink shook violently in the crash, never actually spilling over. Sydney watched it intently, indentifying with the feeling of having a turmoil of "ink" splashing inside of oneself, but never actually spilling into the world, until he decided enough was enough for one night. Morning. In a single motion he dropped his feet to the floor and hopped up swiftly, the only sound made from his cuff links colliding with the wooden arm of the chair. As he pushed his chair in, and stood pondering of his next action, the ticking of the clock only seemed to grow louder in the solitude.

Just two a few seconds of the ticking seemed to multiply the pounding in his brain until he couldn't take it anymore. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Sydney closed his eyes and pressed his forefingers to his temples. Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. It never stopped.

"Just shut up, already!" he shouted when he couldn't take it any longer, immediately clamping a hand to his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut. The last thing he had really wanted to do was to wake Stryver, and he already seemed to hear his repremands: "Sydney, Sydney, Sydney, what're we gonna do with you? Awake at this hour, Memory? Really. It's no wonder you're always so worn with all this drinking, and carousing, and staying up late..."

He rolled his eyes at the clock. "Sydney, Sydney, Sydney," he mocked in an uppidy, cockney accent. "Please." It wasn't the drinking that caused him to become irrational, and there certainly wasn't any carousing going on. Staying up lated never seemed to affect him in any way other than displaying a lovely set of rings under his eyes. It was the damned clock that Stryver was so proud of, showing off in the corner of the office-lounge.

He wasn't sure when his affinity for hating clocks began, but he knew it'd been at least since moving back to London. Sure, Big Ben was a beautiful sight and landmark, but the idea of a big timepiece constantly towering over him seemed entirely too peremptory. It stood over him as the hands ticked away each and every minute of his life, where all he could do was watch as it was displayed over the city. At first, it nearly motivated him to tackle work in an intense, meaningful manner, but the longer he'd look at it, the more lackadaisical he became. The reverse effect only continued to go stronger until he couldn't stand it anymore, until suddenly all the clock reminded him of were his failures. And not only his failure to seize the moment, but his failure to achieve anything other than the successes of everyone else, without even a note or mention. Now all time and clocks did for him was remind him of his wasted life and weary self-efforts. That's when his drinking had gotten extremely excessive.

The worst part about it was that he'd grown accustomed to feeling wasted and wearisome, but it was the time, the clocks that intensified it for him, and he hated it. It was all a constant reminder of the same routines he endured daily. The same meaningless minutes passing the same way each day, never to be relived again - not that it would've mattered. Sydney assured himself of this custom. In fact, as long as the routines were prevelent, he probably could've lived with just drinking moderately, nor not even at all. He would never ultimately drink himself into a sleep.

But things _did_ happen and the routines _did_ change, and that's when the clocks became especially unbearable. Sydney's thought process paused for only a second as he felt the corners of his mouth twitching violently and the lids of his eyes welling. He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, letting the whole feeling pass him by for a moment, and then turned toward the door, needing to get himself away from the clock and the room.

The most recent change in his routines and his thought process involved that of Lucie and Darnay. Sydney couldn't help the images of them that passed through his mind, individual images, dual images, images of them together, as he walked briskly but quietly through the corridor of Stryver's house. Everything was set in his way of functioning until Darnay's trial when suddenly it felt like someone laughing just that much harder in his face. He'd seen plenty of beautiful girls, but none that were as caring and selfless as she. He'd seen plenty of rightgeous men, fighting justly for themselves in the way he never could, but none so charismatic as he. It didn't help that Darnay'd looked so similar to himself and that Lucie had the brains to understand how happy he'd make her. Sydney couldn't help but hate them as he began to walk even more briskly through the halls of Stryver's house.

Less than ironically, he ended up in the cookery of the place, wherein an entire collection of wines, whiskeys, and ales were stashed in a closet. His hand shook as he opened the door and stepped in, grasping the first bottle he felt. It wasn't labelled, but it smelled of a strong Merlot, and Sydney couldn't help prying out the cork and downing half the bottle in a single gulp. The ticking still rung in his mind and the images of the couple (and himself) flash through his mind with every stroke of the second hand. He simply wanted to make it disappear, to stop thinking, to sleep until the routine came back, until he couldn't remember all that he'd wasted in life.

He knew if he continued here, Stryver would catch him, and then the lectures would never end. Of course, he knew he could threaten to stop working on the petty cases each night while Stryver slept, but they'd both know it was only a bluff. It was one of the problems he faced while the minutes ticked past him; he'd never have the courage to quit the bad - only to continue the good - for which he knew he'd never truly be recognized. Still, he continued to down the bottle until there was nothing left, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and then slouching against the wall.

He only did it to relieve the feelings of envy and hatred. Looking down at the empty bottle in his hand, he knew it was wrong. Sydney looked to the closet again, then back to the bottle, before deciding it wasn't worth the morning lecture, and that the sun would be rising too soon to go out to the tavern. He just wished the feelings and the perpetual ticking to leave him. Instead, he just replaced the empty bottle in its home in the closet - he'd dispose of it another time. He then attempted to shut the door quietly, before carrying off in a quickened pace for his bed.

As Sydney made his way, only stumbling a little, he passed the office-lounge and it's clock again. He couldn't help but feel a bought of nausea pass through him as he crashed into his room and onto his bed.

"It'll never go away," he murmured into his pillow, unable to hold back his tears any longer.

It was clear that he was disappointed in himself, but the bottle of Merlot had helped. It didn't take all the feelings away though, he noted, as the tears made hot tracks down his face. He couldn't get the ticking or the visions of Lucie out of his mind. Still, as the feeling wasn't entirely unknown to him, he felt himself relaxing, giving way very slowly. When he felt his chest heave for what he hoped would be the last time that night, he could faintly hear the clock chiming six. The sun would be rising soon, and a new day would be laid out in front of him, in which he couldn't help knowing he'd just waste away in it - in the same manner - as all the others.

"But I truly love you..." he whispered quietly, before drifting away into a sleep - a sleep where the ticking clocks didn't exist.


End file.
